My Heart Is with the Hunted

By Marcus B. Christian

Whenever I hear the crack of guns

   In thickets, woods or lea,

My heart is with the hunted --

   No matter what it be.

If it be man or beast or bird --

   Something in random flight --

I take the side of the hunted thing --

   I feel that it is right.

Whenever I hear the baying hounds,

   I toss and fume and fret,

For I trot beside the hunted thing

   In terror and thirst and sweat.

Whenever I hear the thicket's crash,

   One thing I cannot forget:

That though we range with the hunters,

   We may be hunted yet.

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